


we ain’t ever gonna be respectable

by futureboy



Category: Saturday Night Live, Weekend Update (SNL)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Bad Jokes, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, aka the LNSM ladies crush Seth at bowling but he still wins the whole night, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25293079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: 80s!AU. Seth and his work friends have been dragged to the bowling alley on a corporate outing, but he can’t stop himself from being distracted by an androgynous fever vision with a Madonna hair wrap.
Relationships: Seth Meyers/Stefon, Seth Meyers/Stefon Zolesky
Comments: 20
Kudos: 75





	we ain’t ever gonna be respectable

**Author's Note:**

> _This is a fair use, non-commercial fanwork. I have nothing to do with SNL. Stefon’s character belongs to John Mulaney, his face to Bill Hader, and his fictional hand in marriage to Seth Meyers - who, in this fanwork, is the persona represented in the Weekend Update skits, and not the actual Seth Meyers. No-one in this fic represents their real-life counterpart._  
>  (For extra protection, no last names are used for any additional characterisation. As ever, none of my works are listed in search engines.)
> 
> Title from 'Respectable' by Mel and Kim. This is so self indulgent it's unreal.

Hands down the _worst_ part of forced corporate friendship is the outings. As far as they go, bowling isn’t too bad - definitely better than the Christmas party. Seth would have preferred the customary department bar crawl, of course, but after the Accidental Glassing of ‘86, they’re not allowed to organize those anymore.

So bowling it is.

“Amber’s gonna win,” he complains, “it’s not a fair fight. She’s closer to being eye-level with the pins.”

Jenny snorts. “Go easy, man. That’s an easy way to get fifteen pounds in the crotch.”

“You bowl with a fifteen pound ball?!”

Amber preens. “I bowl with nothing but a keen eye and raw talent. You should try it sometime,” she says.

Seth’s got butterbean eyes and talent that was badly microwaved several bowling tournaments ago, so the only thing that might help him now are the barriers, or maybe those slide racks that they give toddlers to help them wheel the ball down the lane. Neither of those are gonna help him keep out of trouble with the guys in the office - not that he’s keen on impressing them, he just tries to avoid being an easier target, y’know? Most guys don’t take to what others would deem ‘being a decent human being’ or ‘respecting women and their opinions’.

This is usually why he sticks to hovering in the back of the crowd, with Amber and Jenny.

“Hey, Ally. Do you think Seth’s gonna come last?” Jenny asks, jogging to catch up as the group enter the hall. “Or second to last? I can’t tell.”

“God. Who would he be worse than?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think Karen can put a lot of force behind her throws.”

“This is supposed to be _fun_ ,” he reminds them, loudly, over the sudden burst of arcade noise and the flicker of strobe lights and neon. “This isn’t fun for me if you bully me the whole evening!”

“It’s fun for us,” Jenny reasons.

Amber grins and nods enthusiastically over her shoulder. “Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to this all damn day.”

Seth’s so buying a beer at the first opportunity.

As they approach the front desk, he quickly realizes that they’re one of the few parties in here - admittedly, it _is_ a Thursday evening, so a whole bunch of the teenage groups won’t be in til tomorrow. But it’s eerie, being one of three groups in the whole building, and he’s suddenly unsure about not having a crowd watch him crash and burn. Audiences calm him down. Maybe it’s a power in numbers thing.

They let marketing go to the front. Fucking show-offs are always the center of attention, but then the assholes don’t even bother to check the party in, so Mike from Copy takes the wheel. Good guy, shitty puns. Seth likes getting to work with Mike. Say what you want about Copy, but that department seem to have a good time while they get shit done.

He watches with silent amusement, waiting for the shoe exchange, as Amber and Karen fight over a two-player arcade demo.

“--And you’re on Lane Eleven. Next group, please!”

Marketing cut in line. Fucking typical.

The man behind the desk is probably only a few years younger than Seth, but it’s still weird to see a thirty-something manning the position he always thinks of as a highschooler’s job. Especially one as tall at this dude. He tries to check out what to expect, but all he can see is the top of the man’s head, bopping along to ‘Lucky Star’ over the speaker system and the salespeople. A brunet. Same wrapped hair as Madonna in the music video, too. Huh.

Behind him, a shorter, seedier looking guy with a pornstache is presumably the manager. Maybe even the owner; the guy’s got a decade on Seth at _least_. His little name tag says ‘BRUCE’.

“--and you’re on Lane Twelve. Who’s next?”

He lets the ladies filter forwards first. A well aimed glare from Jenny gets the grody-looking manager-slash-owner turning his back on them hurriedly, and Seth takes the window of opportunity to pause looking out for them all, and scrape his shoes from his heels.

The only building in the world where you’re expected to stand in the lobby in your socks. Bowling is _so_ weird.

“Here you go,” the shoe exchange guy says, swapping Jenny’s baby heels. His voice is smoky and sharp, like quartz. Seth’s interest spikes instantly. “Lane Thirteen… Oh.”

He pauses, eyes widening, as he takes in Seth’s presence. There’s a spark of something in his look. It’s a little scary and a little flattering, all at once.

“What size are you?” he manages.

“I’m a ten,” replies Seth, dropping his work shoes onto the counter.

“Is that in inches?”

He blinks, the flirtation landing like an intimate slap in the face - not unpleasant, but definitely unexpected. “Uhhh,” he says intelligently, “I’m not sure?”

The man puts his chin in his hands and cocks his head, as though he’s amused by Seth’s reaction.

“I can check, if you like,” he says. “It wouldn’t take long… Or _would_ it?”

Seth is extremely distracted by how much emphasis the shoe boy just put on the word ‘long’.

He wants to say something else, but Amber’s shoes make a _thunk_ noise as they hit the counter, and it breaks the spell of… whatever the hell was just happening, anyway. The shoe guy switches out a pair for Seth, and gets right to work sourcing Amber’s sixes for her.

 _God_ , Seth’s curious.

“Hey,” he says, leaning on the counter by his elbow. The shoe exchange worker is so broad and sharp featured and _hairy_ \- Seth genuinely wants to know more about this strikingly effeminate man, and not only because he can see some assholes in Marketing left the poor guy looking even more despairing than when the party had first arrived. “What’s the inside story on this place? It’s empty as hell, I was wondering if there was anything juicy we should know about--”

“Seth, that’s _rude_ ,” Amber admonishes him. “And yet… I also want to know, so continue.”

“I _wish_ I could divulge my secrets,” the man sighs. His hands are moving on autopilot, sourcing different size shoes as he goes. “I’m not allowed, though. I’d like nothing better than to tell you, you have the air hockey puck earrings of my dreams.”

“Oh,” says Amber, taken aback, and plays with one of the plastic discs hanging from her ears. They’re bright red and acrylic. “Thank you?”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. Dude looks bored as hell. It’s clearly crushing his soul to keep things to himself. Amber flashes a winning smile and swipes her shoes from the counter, crouching to fit the velcro - which leaves Seth, now standing alone, with the odd shoe exchange worker.

“I can give you the welcome spiel, if you want?” 

Yeah, why not. Seth shrugs and accepts the offer with a wave of his hand.

The man steeples his fingers over his nose, inhales, and says: “welcome to Lucky Strike, the bowling alley that has _everything_. Dusty bubblegum... Shards of broken glass in the ball return... _A two handed release._ ”

Seth blinks.

He glances over his shoulder real quick - nope, it’s just him absorbing this bizarre bowling scene-setting. No-one else seems to be listening to the man at the desk talk, which isn’t surprising, but he had kinda hoped someone could corroborate the pure-grade insanity that just dripped from the guy’s lips.

All he manages to muster up in return is:

_“Huh?”_

Which appears to be the wrong response, because the man perks up. It’s almost like _no-one_ listens to him usually, and he’s suddenly aware that at least one human being is interacting with his lunacy lists. “All this, and more!” he continues. “Ever wanted to probe fingers into the unknown dark depths of bowling ball holes? You’re in the right place--”

“We are?” Amber asks, jumping to her feet. “I mean, never, _no_ , but now I’m interested.”

Unfortunately, the manager chooses this point to bust his way into the conversation, with all the grace of a zamboni on concrete. He looks fuckin’ _pissed_.

“ _Stefon_ ,” he warns. That tone is all too familiar, apparently; Stefon’s face falls back into its put-out pout. “We’ve talked about this! Wear your name tag and stop bullshitting the customers.”

Stefon’s face masks over into a bored look of utter defeat:

“I also regret to inform you that our Pac-Man cabinet is out-of-order, and that these are the most boring moments of my entire life. Inner city rent is _not_ cheap. Did you know that ten-pin bowling will be featured next year at the Olympics in Seoul?”

“I didn’t,” says Seth sympathetically. “Thanks for the information, Stefon.”

“You’re welcome. You’re on Lane Thirteen. I’ll be over in a few minutes to take your orders and help with setting up your lane if you need.”

Yeesh. He doesn’t even look mentally checked in to _that_ set of sentences - it’s like his mind’s gone offline while he parrots emotionless script back at them. Seth kinda wants to look over his shoulder as they leave, but he’s worried that he might see a private, miserable moment, and that would be much worse.

“Aw,” says Amber, walking double-time to keep up with him. “That’s kinda sad. He had a whole thing going on there, he was starting to look excited.”

“Yeah,” Seth agrees. It _is_ sad.

When they get to the thirteenth lane, Karen’s already punching their names into the scoreboard. It’s so oddly convenient that they all have less than five characters per name, and she’s remarkably cheerful about the serendipity.

He sidles up to Jenny, who’s watching the scoreboard proceedings with rapt interest.

“Hey, J?”

“What’s up?” she asks, and doesn’t spare him a glance.

“Did… Did you get interrogated when you swapped in your shoes, too?”

“Hm?” she says, and glances down from where Karen’s accidentally managed to type in ‘ALLU’. “No, I just asked for extra spray in mine. Why?”

“No reason,” he replies.

He’s not gonna ask any of the _guys_ if they had a similar experience with Stefon - he gets the feeling they were making some unsavory comments amongst each other, and he doesn’t wanna risk that awful expression crossing over the man’s face again. Not when he’s clearly having a bad time already.

By the time they manage to lock in the names and pick out the appropriate weight bowling balls, Stefon’s done the rounds for Lanes Eleven and Twelve, and approaches them last of all. They’re simple folk - they know what they’re after.

“So that’s four of the lagers and two slushies?”

A murmur of agreement.

“Coming right up,” says Stefon, and doesn’t leave.

Seth frowns.

Instead of returning to the front desk, or putting the order in with the bar, Stefon hovers by one of the bowling ball racks behind their lane and wordlessly watches like a hawk. Again, no-one seems to acknowledge his actions or presence in the slightest, which makes Seth feel as though he’s having strange visions of a flamboyant, overly-caffeinated apparition.

“Slow shift?” he asks.

Stefon lowers his hands from his face with a healthy dose of suspicion. It’s like he can’t believe that Seth’s saying sentences to him in any kind of direct manner.

“…Hm?”

“You look bored,” Seth explains, “a-and actually, you _said_ you were bored earlier. I was wondering if it’s like this all the time.”

He breaks into a wobbly smile. “Well, yes,” he says, “but this is actually a _very_ special Thursday.”

“Oh, yeah?” Seth grins. His heart does a complicated tumbling routine - _what the hell is he doing?_ Whatever it is, it’s pleasant and way more fun than bowling. “How come?”

Stefon has a glint of mischief in his eye, like the tempting exposure of a tourist’s wallet. “Because I get to look at _you_ all night,” he teases, and Seth flushes all the way down past his collar.

_Oh._

Well, that’s definitely… overt.

Fuck, it’s really _nice_.

“Eh, I don’t know if that’s special, man,” he tells him, “maybe a special kind of bowling failure? I don’t think you’re gonna wanna see me try to win with a whole score of forty.”

Stefon _bursts_ into giggles.

The way he collapses into his own hands makes the corners of Seth’s lips twitch, and he tries valiantly to repress the smile that’s threatening to break out as the man attempts to recover.

“You’re pretty funny, Seth,” Stefon eventually breathes. His blue eyes sparkle under the strobe lights.

“How’d you know my name?”

“It’s written on the board, _genius_ ,” Stefon snorts, and starts backing up. “Go take your turn. I’ll be right back.”

He walks in reverse for a few steps, elegant and long-legged, not breaking eye contact until he’s forced to turn away, and Seth has to snap himself out of staring. He bowls a surprise strike and doesn’t even remember throwing the goddamn ball; it’s only when Karen jumps and cheers loudly from his left that he even registers the pins have fallen.

“Enjoy _that_ while it lasts!” Dina crows, “I’m not above buying you a round to sabotage you!”

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” he admits.

“Neither would Jenny,” Ally pipes up cheerfully, “I’m pretty sure she’s been checking out that tall shoe lesbian since the moment we entered.”

Jenny’s peering into the ball return, waiting for her ten to make a reappearance, and shrugs without any trace of shame. “Can you blame me? She’s got a jaw that could crack walnuts.”

“Go easy, Jen, shh--”

Dina squints. “Y’know… I don’t think she’s a girl.”

“He’s not,” says Seth, still slightly dazed. He kinda feels like he’s been clanged over the head with one of the metal bowling frames that uncoordinated kids use. 

“Aw, man.”

“Quit _whining_ and take your go,” Amber says, jabbing Jenny in the sides in the general direction of the lane. “I’ve got a game to win and you’re holding me up.”

“Hey, it’s not me, it’s Ally taking her sweet fuckin’ time!”

They descend into bickering - during which Seth draws some fire for “getting four turns’ worth of points in one go, like an _asshole_ ” - and they barely even notice when Stefon returns with their party’s drinks. In fact, when he does make his way through them all to Lane Thirteen, nobody spots him, because they’re too distracted with belting out Sandra lyrics to try and put Jenny off.

_“IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT--!”_

“You won’t lose your heart or sell your soul in _here_ ,” Stefon says with an unimpressed curl of his lip. Dina jumps out of her fucking skin.

“Jesus Louise-us, you’re like a beer ghost!” Amber says, clutching her heart.

He hands her a slushie: “in that case, I think you’ll find I’m a _spirit_ ,” he corrects. “Here you go, Miss Houston.”

“Houston?” she asks.

“You’re Whitney’s sister, right? You sound just like her,” Stefon says, as Dina inconspicuously plucks a beer from his tray.

Amber drapes herself over the lane’s bench. _“Well!_ _”_ she beams, “I _mean--_ Aren’t you sweet? At least there’s _someone_ who can see star quality for what it is--”

“Your go, Amber,” Jenny tactically reminds her.

“Ooh. Right back.”

“Sorry the choices are all so _boring_ , ugh,” Stefon says breathily, unloading the rest of the bottles onto their table. (Karen swipes her slushie protectively.) Seth doesn’t watch him do it _too_ closely, but he does feel like a bit of a creep, and he’s pretty grateful that Amber chooses to cover up his point of focus with an impressive split-pin spare. “You girls should go to _**Yoooo**_ with five ‘o’s, they’ve got way better stuff on tap.”

“It’ll do for now,” Jenny grins, retrieving her drink and tipping the rim at him in gratitude. “Thanks, shoe boy.”

Dina snorts. “Yeah, Seth needs the handicap.”

“I’m _losing_ ,” he points out to her, “you both just want me to suffer, you genuine demons. This is comfort booze. A consolation beer.”

“It’s a handy excuse if you ask me,” Dina smirks. 

“Why are you losing?” says Stefon.

There’s a second where Seth classifies this response as _unusual_ within his brain filing - the staff aren’t usually so talkative on corporate outings, but Stefon seems genuinely interested.

“Because he’s dogshit,” Ally pipes up, before swiping a bowling ball from the rack and rolling herself a wobbly split-pin.

“Bite me, Ally.”

“Mmm, I can think of better candidates,” Stefon flirts. (Seth chokes on a mouthful of shitty beer.) 

The social space that follows this exchange is probably on purpose, judging by the weird stare that Jenny’s directing to everyone; Seth hangs back patiently for his turn to roll around again, and Stefon waits next to him, rigid and square-shouldered. (He makes a mental note to buy Jenny breakfast next time he’s early into the office.)

“I bet working here sucks the fun out of bowling,” he comments idly. Karen just scored a nine for the third turn running and she looks pretty frustrated about it.

“Mmm, you’d be surprised,” Stefon tells him, “my aim is, ironically, straight as an arrow.”

“Why is that ironic?” he asks, stupid even as he says it, and Stefon fixes him with a _look._

“Because your marketing department are verbally pissing over us as we speak,” he says, both frustrated and patient, “and because I draw on my shoes, and because you _clearly_ have a healed over helix piercing.”

“That was in college and it was stupid,” he says hurriedly. His fingers fly up to rub at his ear - _yikes_.

“You still seem pretty stupid now,” Stefon retorts.

Ooh, that’s coded to all hell. Seth hates himself for pouting, but the corners of his mouth turn down without him having total control over them anymore. Bullshit.

“I’m not _so_ stupid,” he says, “I mean, I’m a dumbass, but I’m stupid _funny_ , I promise.”

“Then you could always leave me something to remember you by when I’m stuck at the front desk?” Stefon asks. It’s hopeful - his eyebrows are way up in his asymmetrical fringe, waiting for a positive response. “I don’t know your last name, so I can’t pull, like, full authority requests. But I want you to know I’m thinking it.”

“It’s ‘Meyers’. Seth Meyers,” he replies automatically, without really considering the consequences.

Stefon breaks into a Cheshire Cat grin. “Then tell me a joke, Seth Meyers,” he says.

“Oh, uh,” says Seth - he’s suddenly _extremely_ sweaty, for absolutely no reason at all. “…To, uh, to get to the other side?”

It’s a weird choice even for him. He knows it as soon as the set-up leaves his mouth.

But he thinks that Stefon might be the kind of audience who would appreciate the patience of the punchline. And it _kind_ of works out, too - he appears to be somewhat impressed by whatever weirdness is coming out of his face right now.

Stefon narrows his eyes, grin crinkling up the corners even further, and eventually covers his mouth with his hands. It’s as though he’s trying to keep the air of his laughter inside, like he’s opened a soda bottle too quickly.

“I don’t get it,” he says, “but I like it.”

“You don’t get it _yet_ ,” Seth corrects. “It’ll hit ya. I promise.”

Stefon beams. He’s _radiant_. 

“Then I’ll wait for it,” he says.

Bananarama flares up - it’s ‘Love in the First Degree’, with all the subtle opening stabs of the Ides of March. Seth’s adoring little bowling heart flutters. 

When it’s his go, he tries not to think about the fact that Stefon is watching him, the employee having been largely ignored by the other lanes so far. Somehow this tactic both fails and works tremendously - it’s like he’s so focused on the gorgeous man observing him that he forgets how to play the game entirely, which, with his particular set of skills, is a blessing in disguise. Another strike for Meyers.

“Perfect ten,” Stefon remarks.

Seth shrugs, making his way back to the waiting area as modestly as he can: “I’ll still lose to Amber,” he says.

“Oh, honey, _not_ your strike,” Stefon replies, and glances down at Seth’s suit pants.

Holy _shit._

“Great shot, Seth!” Karen beams.

It sounds vaguely as though Amber swears she’ll crush him in battle, but he doesn’t hear the vow clearly enough to be sure. Jenny high fives her, which seems to be a solidarity or allegiance kind of gesture, so he makes a mental note not to think about this remarkably novel crush for the next hour or so. Just in case he wins.

And Stefon stays, even when he’s probably supposed to be manning the front desk and swapping out horrible loafers for awkwardly smooth bowling sneakers.

He’s not a very sympathetic viewer - more of a critic, actually. Seth likes to wince and dole out mostly-sincere ‘better luck next time’s when things don’t go someone’s way, but Stefon? He’s shaking his head and tutting at almost everyone who isn’t Amber.

He tips up his beer. “I bet you and the other staff hang out to practice, right? You guys must be bowling perfect games all the time,” Seth says, resting the rim of the bottle on his bottom lip.

“Oh, no, the other employees dislike Stefon,” he replies, grimacing. He doesn’t look upset about this - it’s more revulsion than disappointment. “They think he’s weird and they stay away… Unless they want him to hook them up with some acid. That’s why I’m stuck by myself in the Thursday evening shift,” he explains.

“Oh. Sorry.”

He gets a toothy grin in response. “It’s not your fault that it’s a bad night for acid,” Stefon smirks, and well, he guesses that much is true.

“When’s the best--”

“Tuesday afternoon,” he says.

“Oh,” says Seth, taken aback, “thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“No problem, Seth Meyerrrrrs.” Stefon does a little twisty thing with his shoulders, like a kid with a recess crush. “Can I ask you a question?”

Seth shrugs. “Sure, go for it.”

“Why do you hang out with the ladies?” he asks curiously, tilting his head in interest. “You seem a little more ‘frat boy’ to me. But then you’re not with the business talking jerkoffs. It doesn’t add up.”

He’s not sure how to take ‘frat boy’, but judging by his penchant for embarrassing his department with loud slang and douchey competitive bullshit - aside from the obvious, because no-one’s got a fighting chance in a game of bowling - it’s not _entirely_ inaccurate.

Seth considers it for a sec, and eventually, he comes out with: “because they’re my _friends_ ,” he says carefully, “because this company _criminally_ underrates them. And it makes me _so_ goddamn _mad_ , I’m real lucky to even be in a department with so many smart women.” He pauses - some self-conscious joking is in order, maybe, seeing as he’s spilling his heart to a guy he’s known for less than an hour. “Plus I know they can take care of themselves,” he adds, “but I get jealous easy, and I don’t want them kicking anyone else’s ass in my stead, y’know?”

“Ah,” Stefon grins. “The man’s a mascot. I should have known.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a _lucky_ one,” he says, and swigs the last of his beer, using the glass neck to jab at the scoreboard. “I’m dead last. It’s just the way they planned it.”

“I’m sure you come out on top in other ways,” Stefon suggests, looking at him through his eyelashes, and Seth momentarily forgets that the rest of the players are even in his vicinity. The whole building could come down around him right now, and he’d barely blink - not when a man made of angles, in doodle-covered canvas shoes and a shroud of sheer self-confidence, is ever-so-slightly leaning into his personal space like that.

His mouth is suddenly very dry.

_“Seth!”_

“Yeah?” He jumps at the shout coming from the lane, and really, it’s a good thing he just finished his beer. “Sorry, dude, I’m just gonna--”

“It’s okay,” Stefon says, “I should go back to the front desk anyhow. I’m only here until eight, so I got stuff to finish up. Thanks for… Hm.”

He twists his hand in the air, as if to say, _for whatever __that_ _was?_

Seth shoots him a nod and puts his empty bottle on the table.

When he returns to the benches, it’s not just Dina and Jenny staring at him. The whole team is giving him a variety of Looks. Which is _deeply_ unsettling.

“What?”

“Are you serious?!” Dina asks. “Stop fawning over the shoe boy and take your fuckin’ go!”

(“ _Ouch_ ,” Karen winces.)

He scowls. “I wasn’t _fawning_.”

“Yeah, not fawning like you’re not _pouting_ right now, pal,” Amber mutters out the corner of her mouth, “it’s a good job the marketing department are too busy showing their asses to be a pain in ours. You gotta chill out, Seth!”

Gross. He _is_ chill - probably _too_ chilled out, considering the circumstances, because despite the fact that they’re one of three parties in a twenty lane establishment, it’s still a frighteningly and absolutely exhilarating public encounter. It’s kinda like digging around in the toaster with a fork while your roommates shriek at you - stupid and dangerous and something you wanna see through to the end, in case you try again later and get burned and disappointed.

But Stefon doesn’t come back. He flits around, taking care of the other parties, swapping out shoes and bringing even more drinks to their coworkers on other lanes, during which he peers over his shoulder to smile at him from across the hall.

They finish their game and decide to call it quits - apparently the other two lanes are gonna go for a second, but they’re starting to get rowdy and that’s even _less_ enjoyable when it comes to a business team-building activity. Seth came second-to-last, like he knew he would. (That early fluke really saved his ass.)

They’re gathering up their coats when Amber slaps at his elbow.

“Hey, dude, we were all talking? Since we wanna skip out on the rest of the bowling, we thought we could hit up _**Yooooo**_ with five ‘o’s,” she beams. “Jenny’s idea, but we’re all in. Are you up for it?”

Seth flashes a smile back. “Yeah, sure, sounds like fun. We can grab weird cocktails and talk smack without an audience.”

“Go trade your shoes in, then, dipshit! We wanna slip out before those other dunces decide to break for another round--”

“Sure,” he says again, “I’ll be right back.”

He yanks off his stupid velcro bowling pumps and traipses to the front desk, the pair clunking with the rhythm as he goes. Socked feet against carpet-on-concrete feels too solid, like flat ground after a stint on a trampoline.

He’s _nervous_.

The desk is a solid weight under his elbows when he leans against it. “Hey,” he starts, “have you seen a pair of size tens around? I could’ve sworn I left them somewhere near here.”

“Seth Meyers!” says Stefon brightly. He pops up from behind the curve of the desk, alert and alive. “I have your precious shoes, but I’ll need suitable payment--”

“How’re these?” he flirts, holding out the bowling sneakers.

Stefon pulls a face. “Acceptable,” he says eventually. “I would have preferred your number, but what’s done is done.”

Seth watches him spray the shoes, retrieve his equally stupid loafers, and slot the sneakers back into their slot.

“It’s too bad you’re so barf-worthy at bowling,” Stefon’s twittering, on autopilot as he goes through the motions, “you could have come back to play again. You and the ladies were boring and normal and the nicest people I’ve had in all week.”

“Yeah, well,” he says shakily, “maybe we’ll see each other some-- uh, somewhere else?” 

Stefon freezes.

His thumb twitches, swiping over the dip of his chin: 

“You’d wanna see me again…?” he asks. It’s like he doesn’t dare believe it.

“Yeah,” Seth says, his mouth scratchy around the confirmation as he tries to get it out in one piece. “I’d wanna see you again. If you’re, uh… If you’re down with that.”

Like a strike on the final turn, Stefon’s demeanor scrolls through shock, runs through disbelief, and settles on sheer delight. He pours himself over the counter and puts his chin in one hand, as though he’s propping up the weight of his own smile.

“How do you feel about clubbing?” he asks.

Oh, that’s-- this is going _well_. Seth pushes past the relief and leans forwards to meet him in the space, so that both of them are conspiring over the appointment book. “I’m guessing you’d be in your element,” he smiles, “what did you have in mind?” 

“Oh, there’s this place in the maintenance tunnels under the fountain in the mall,” Stefon replies, “and it’s got _everything_. Old Coke and miniature bungee jumping and Human Footballs--”

“Wait, hang on,” says Seth - he feels out of breath just listening to the headliners. “This is a _club_? What the hell is a Human Football?”

Stefon curls further into his own hand gleefully. “It’s when people who look like they’re really into, like, bondage and angels-- it’s this thing where they wear leather all over, and curl into the fetal position.”

Huh, okay.

“Is that sex thing?” he asks.

“No, it’s a fun thing,” says Stefon. “I’m pretty sure, anyway. Wanna go check?”

Somewhere along the line, they’ve switched over, because Seth is a hundred percent certain _he_ was the one originally asking Stefon out.

(But that doesn’t matter so much. The important thing is that it’s _happening_.)

He runs a hand through his hair. “I-- Yeah, sure.”

And that is apparently enough for Stefon. He straightens up, smoothing his fingers over his big, big smile with both hands, and then suddenly remembers that Seth is both on his way out of the building and standing in the lobby in his socks.

When he hands over the original pair of shoes, Seth catches his hand.

Stefon pauses to make eye contact.

“I’m gonna need a Sharpie,” Seth says.

With a marker promptly slipped into his free hand, Seth rolls up Stefon’s sleeve, and presses his number into the base of his radius. “I’m home by six most days,” he says, curling dashes and sixes over his wrist. “Let me know when you wanna try your club, okay?” 

“Yesyesyesyesyes. _Yes_ ,” Stefon beams, “oh my gosh, best night _ever_.”

“Happy to help,” Seth grins.

He reluctantly lets Stefon take his arm back, and the man immediately begins to blow on the ink like nail polish.

Before he can say anything else, there’s a call from the glass doors up by front of the hall: “Seth, let’s go already!” Jenny yells. “The others ditched me to babysit, c’mon, man…”

“I gotta go,” he says quietly, “but give me a call. Promise?”

Stefon takes his bottom lip between his teeth and draws a cross over his heart. (Fuck, that’s cute.)

He doesn’t say _goodbye_ or _later_ or even _see ya_ \- he’s already said enough, so Seth simply hops on the spot to yank his shoes on, and makes confident, light strides towards the exit. Jenny makes an impatient looking twist with her hand and scrunches up her face.

He almost makes it.

He’s _so_ close.

But then a blocky guy with terrible haircut brushes past him, wearing a Lucky Strike uniform and a sneer that screams ‘trouble’. He reeks of Axe body spray. He looks like he would have folded Seth into a locker in high school like he was dorky origami.

“You got your jacket?” Jenny asks.

Seth checks his watch.

It’s seven fifty-seven.

He can’t leave Stefon with a sour end to his evening - he’s beginning to wonder if he was ever gonna leave Stefon at _all_ , to be honest, so he takes a deep breath instead, and says:

“Actually, you go on ahead - I think I’ll skip, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, will you, now?” says Jenny. Her eyebrows rise into her hair. It’s entirely possible she’d been expecting this, judging from how amused she seems to be. “Are you gonna be in work tomorrow, Seth?”

“I think so,” he says cautiously.

Jenny’s expression flattens, her mouth pursing into a thin line. “How about I tell the others that you’re not feeling so hot, and in about an hour, _you_ call in and leave a message on the office machine? Should cover you enough. More than Hangover Club back there, anyways.”

Seven fifty-eight. He’s right back at square nervous again and he doesn’t even care, because Jenny is a kindhearted lifesaver and a great friend in a crisis.

“You’re the _best_ ,” he breathes.

“I know,” she grins. “Be safe. I’ll tell Amber she bowled you over.”

“Yeah, don’t, like…”

They fix each other with steady eye contact. It’s a strange solidarity. The strobes and arcades machines and falling pins rattle around them for a few brittle seconds of understanding.

“I won’t,” she says, firm and serious, like a vow. “I won’t, Seth.”

Seven fifty-nine. He nods in reply.

“…Thanks.”

Oh, god, this is horrifying. Jenny leaves to catch up with the others, and Seth spins right on his untied heel through the lobby again. He’s so light headed that he thinks he might pass out on the way back to the desk.

Stefon is blank and checked out again, spraying randomly and rhythmically into the shoe holes. When Seth smacks both hands on the desktop, he throws the aerosol in a startled arc over his shoulder.

“You came back,” he blinks. The can clatters against the wall as it descends.

“Of course I came back, I hadn’t finished my joke yet,” Seth rambles, “I literally just remembered I only told you half of it as I was about to head out the door. Hey, Stefon?” 

“Yes?”

“Why did the time-traveling chicken cross the road?” he asks.

There’s a few seconds where Stefon frowns, rifling through the filing in his brain for the setup; after he’s satisfied with how he’s thought it over, recognition strikes him. “Oh, you bitch,” he breathes, and the clock strikes eight. “That’s _good_. Stefon likes a funny guy.”

Seth is so full of hope, and feels so very, _very_ stupid and lost and thrilled.

“You said you get off right around this time,” he says.

Stefon does his best impression of a bobblehead. “Did you want to do something now? Seth _Meyers_ , I thought you were on the clock tomorrow! Scandalous.” 

“I can’t wait for a phone call,” he says simply. “I’m gonna call in sick.”

“Well,” Stefon says, twirling the bow of his hair wrap with his index finger. “Brandon’s about to come take over from me. And the mall fountain club isn’t open until Monday… Hmmm.”

“We could see if any coffee places are open, or maybe grab some food--”

“I have a better idea,” he says, with a gleaming smile and a hint of tongue between his teeth. “Have you ever wondered what’s through the door that leads out back?”

Seth always just assumed it was ‘out back’, but he’s quickly realizing that he’s gonna need something a little better than that in his reply. “If we give it a couple minutes,” he says, glancing at his watch - eight oh two - “I have a feeling it might be you and me…?”

With a series of slow nods, Stefon licks his front teeth.

“There’s an enclosed alley that leads to the fire escape if you turn right,” he advises. “No-one ever goes down there, the break room is the other way.”

“Oh, yeah?” Seth says.

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Stefon agrees. “You should wait for me by the employee conduct poster. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve palmed off your remaining coworkers to my fellow torture victim.”

He kicks the door open with his heel. Written on the lining of his Converse, in smudged ballpoint pen, appears to be the phrase _☆ DON’T MAKE THREATS YOU CAN’T KEEP ☆_.

“You’d better _not_ palm anyone else off,” Seth mumbles.

He ducks into the corridor to the tune of Stefon’s stifled giggling, heart thudding against his lungs and smile threatening to split his face in half. He’s a phone call away from the best night of his life. How’s _that_ for a fucking Lucky Strike.

**Author's Note:**

> Additonal tracks mentioned are 'Lucky Star' by Madonna, 'In the Heat of the Night' by Sandra, and 'Love in the First Degree' by Bananarama. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@futureboy-ao3](https://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Stay safe, wash your hands, I love you ♥


End file.
